Three Questions
by r4ven3
Summary: Harry contemplates the state of things between he and Ruth after the death of Ros, and after his unwise marriage proposal. One shot only


_**A/N:** **This one shot is for wolfdrum and Sigma Creations, whose birthdays are 11** **th and 19th December respectively. I know neither would appreciate an angsty story, and certainly not a tragic story, so it's fluff all the way (and with no plot). Happy Birthday to you both !**_

* * *

Thames House, London. Saturday December 19th 2009:

It's cold up here on the roof balcony, too cold for anyone other than the toughest of spies. He wonders where that puts him, then, on the scale of toughness, were such a thing to exist. He's beyond feeling cold, his senses having been dulled by the gnawing at his soul of the sharp teeth of guilt and grief. He could stand out here for hours – with no coat and no gloves – and he'd freeze to death without feeling a thing … other than the enduring and ever-present memory of what he has lost.

Had Ruth been by his side, he could have navigated the loss of Ros. Ruth for Ros. Surely that's a reasonable exchange. It is only since Ruth had gone into exile that he had begun to bargain with God, which was an odd activity for a non-believer. He had tried almost everything else, and thus far nothing has worked. With the death of Ros, the very kindest thing God could do (were such a being to even exist) would be to allow he and Ruth to find each other again. After all, it had been more than three years since they'd shared that one dinner, and he feels they have waited long enough, and both have suffered enough. They have paid their dues as spies. Now it is time for them to be together, before time runs out for them both.

Except that Ruth had said no, and in the ten weeks since she'd made the announcement that she could not marry him, (along with her baffling statement that there were thousands – _thousands_? - of times when she would have said yes), they have drifted apart, so that he is no longer sure that their being together is written in the stars. But he is not the kind of man to give up – on her, or on the idea of them.

"Harry?"

He turns to see the weathered face of Alec White, as he covers the short space between roof door and parapet. "Alec," he replies, before turning to once again stare unseeing towards the building across the street. For a moment, he wonders is there, in that building somewhere, a troubled public servant gazing back at him, wondering what would drive a man to stand alone in the cold when almost everyone else in the city is at a pre-Christmas gathering, celebrating with family and friends.

"Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Harry frowns, not sure why Alec is here. The two of them have never been anything more than colleagues.

"You've been up here for .." and checking his watch, "a while. Were it me, I'd be dead by now."

Harry nods. "I have my love to keep me warm."

 _What made him say that? Foolish hope, perhaps._

"Lucky you, then. Ruth arrived only ten minutes ago. She's been looking for you. It seems you left your phone in your office."

Harry turns towards Alec, attempting to remain calm and unmoved by the news. Leaving his phone behind was deliberate on his part. When contemplating the pointlessness of his existence, he doesn't wish to be disturbed. "I thought Ruth had the weekend off."

"She did. She says she needs to speak to you. Shall I … send her up here?"

Harry notices the slight lift of Alec's eyebrows, as though he's waiting for him to lose it; perhaps to bellow at him for suggesting there might be something between him and Ruth. Except that Alec is suggesting nothing of the sort. He's just running an errand on Ruth's behalf, as a favour to a colleague. "If you like," he says, unsure about the best place to be meeting Ruth, especially as she has come into work just to see him.

Alec quickly leaves, rubbing his palms together as he crosses the width of the balcony to the door. Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, wondering why he hadn't thought to bring his gloves. As he hears Alec's footsteps fade, he feels the pinching in his cheeks as the air around him nips the extremities of his exposed skin. He then stamps his feet to prevent his toes from numbing. He is surprised that he can feel, and what he feels is that he's bloody freezing. There is no wind, but the air around him is icy. What kind of fool stands outside in this weather?

He turns, about to head downstairs, when again the door to the roof balcony opens, and this time Ruth is standing there, the hint of a smile softening her eyes.

"I brought these, " she says, and in her hands he sees his leather gloves, and his woollen scarf. Harry sighs heavily, reaching out to take them from Ruth's gloved hands, except that she quickly crosses to where he is, standing rather close to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth from her body. "It's a good thing I decided to come in," she says quickly, dropping her eyes to where she is moving his scarf and gloves from one hand to the other. "You need someone to look after you, Harry."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

He is shocked by his own effrontery, although one look at Ruth's face tells him that she is amused, rather than annoyed. Standing before him is a new Ruth, a different Ruth. The old Ruth would already be half way down the stairs. "Well, seeing that I'm the only one to have considered you may need these, you work it out."

He watches her closely as she hands him his scarf and gloves, and he quickly puts them on, his eyes on hers the whole time. He is waiting for her to walk away. He is waiting for her to change her mind. He is waiting … no, _expecting_ her to delve inside his memories in search of something he's done, either recently or in his deep and murky past - some dark and shameful deed – something to hold against him. He is holding his breath, waiting for her to reject him for something-or-other with which he won't agree, much less understand. They stand quite close, watching one another, and waiting.

And yet nothing happens. Nothing at all.

A full minute passes during which they simply watch one another, on her face a smile, while he holds one eyebrow raised in a question. It is the same question, the question he has not been brave enough to ask, the question which is several questions in one.

 _Despite everything, do you still love me?_

 _Were George to have lived, would you choose me over him?_

 _Can we move beyond where we are, where we've been, and begin again?_

In all likelihood he will never ask that question, firstly because it is three separate questions, and he's afraid she'd say no after the first question, and he couldn't bear that. The second reason is that while he doesn't ask those questions, he can still dream, imagining that she is about to say yes three times. Questions never asked can have any response he chooses, and in his imagination she will always say yes.

Ruth is the first to speak. "I'm certain your office is warmer than this balcony," she says quietly.

"I think you might be right," he replies.

"So .. why don't we … go there?"

"Provided you come with me," he replies quickly, and she smiles into his eyes.

He's taking that as a yes.

* * *

"You'll need to close the door and the blinds," Ruth says, once they are inside Harry's office, and both have removed coats, gloves and scarves. Harry lifts both eyebrows in an unspoken question. Is she serious? "Don't get excited, Harry," Ruth continues, "it's just that I'd like some privacy while we .. talk."

Talking is good. Talking is preferable to the yawning silence which has grown between them since Ros' funeral … since he had proposed marriage to her, and she had firmly rejected his proposal. Harry moves to close the blinds, glancing out to the Grid where only Dimitri Levendis and Alec White are sitting over cups of coffee at Dimitri's desk. It is six-thirty of a Saturday evening in December, and everyone else has gone home .. everyone with a life, that is. Turning back to Ruth, he sees her standing beside his desk, not sure where she should sit.

"Perhaps if we sit on the sofa," he suggests hopefully, and she nods, passing close by him on her way to the sofa, her delicate perfume wafting towards him as she passes. "Drink?" he asks, once she is sitting, her skirt covering her knees.

"Thanks," she says. Harry thinks she looks uncomfortable, and he wonders why she has chosen his patch, his stamping ground. He has a sudden flash of understanding. She has chosen his office because she is about to inform him of her intention to resign from the service. _Christ._ He can hear her already. _Harry, I'm sorry, but I can no longer work_ _in such close proximity_ _to you ..._

He sits beside her, close, but not touching her, and hands her a tumbler in which he has poured a finger of whiskey. He knows she is not fond of spirits, and is only drinking with him to be sociable. She'd most likely prefer tea. "So …" he begins, half turning towards her, elbows on his knees, his own tumbler held loosely between the fingers of both hands, "what is so important that you have come into work on your day off?"

"I've not come to work, Harry. I'm here to see you."

He nods, and waits. This is not about him. Ruth has something important to tell him, and he doesn't know whether to relax, or to hold himself at a safe distance. "Ruth -"

"I've been thinking," she begins, dropping her eyes to her drink, turning the glass in her fingers. "I acted unwisely."

"When? What is this about?"

"I've been thinking about the day you asked me to marry you."

"Oh, that." So here comes the full explanation of why. He doesn't want to hear it. He'd heard enough on the day of Ros' funeral. "Ruth, it's all right. I do understand. I know you don't have the same feelings for me as I have for -"

He has noticed the deepening of the lines between her eyebrows, a look of irritation on her face. "You know nothing at all, Harry. What I said that day was because you … sprung it on me. I was expecting the solemnity of a funeral, and then ended up with a proposal of marriage. What did you expect under those circumstances?"

He nods his understanding. Put like that, her response at the time is beginning to make sense to him. "I'm sorry. I was just taking advantage of … the situation."

"My vulnerability, you mean."

"Not at all. We were alone in a churchyard. If you ignored the funeral part of it, it was quite ... romantic."

Ruth drops her eyes, and he can see a smile forming on her lips. He watches her closely while she takes a sip of her drink. "You sometimes say the strangest things," she says at last.

"But you don't deny that the setting was romantic."

"I suppose it was, but the timing ..."

Of course. The timing _was_ terrible. "If I had the day over again, I'd do it differently." He knows she has something to tell him – something important to her – but he doesn't much want to hear it. It's sure to be bad news, so he is stalling.

"I know you would," she says quietly. "Looking back at that day, my response was unkind. You had just lost Ros, and I know how important she was to you." She quickly glances up at him, her large eyes drawing him in, then just as quickly she breaks eye contact. "I didn't give you much of a chance."

"I should have perhaps asked you for a drink, but I was afraid that it might be you or me who would be buried next. I didn't want to waste valuable time."

"I know that now … since I've thought about it. I've spent most of today thinking about it … while I did the laundry and the hoovering."

This time it is he who smiles, while he looks down at his glass of whisky, and then takes a quick gulp, more to settle his nerves than anything else. The very idea of Ruth hoovering makes him smile. Other than the day of Mik Maudsley's death, he's never seen her in her domestic environment. He's not seen her with her hair messy while she washes floors, or sorts the laundry. The Ruth he knows comes in to work each day, and performs her tasks fast and flawlessly; Ruth is necessary to his working day, and he would like her to be part of his life away from work.

"So ..," he says at last, "what is it you're telling me?"

Again, there is a furrowing of skin between Ruth's eyes, as she stares at him, frowning. "You mean, you don't know?"

He shakes his head slowly, wondering whether he is a bit dim, or perhaps they both are. "Not really. You've said you regret what happened that day, and you wished you'd done it differently. That doesn't paint a clear picture, Ruth."

Ruth is still staring, and still frowning. "I was hoping you'd know what I meant."

"I know I'm bright, but reading your mind is not yet one of my skills." _Despite how hard I've tried to do so._

He is relieved when her face relaxes in a smile. She then drops her eyes, and he knows she's thinking. _Please_ _don't let her talk herself out of this … out of us._

Ruth leans forward and places her whiskey tumbler on the floor. She then turns her body towards him, and glances up at him. He can see hesitation, caution, and even a flash of fear in her eyes. She swallows, and then reaches out with one hand and gently places it over the hand he has resting on his knee. Without thinking about it, Harry turns his hand to grasp hers, sliding his fingers between hers, as he smiles into her eyes. Ten weeks of anger and loss drain from him.

Unless she is about to tell him that they can't possibly be together, and her gentle gesture is to soften the blow.

"It was the marriage part which had me backing off, Harry," she says at last, lifting her eyes from their hands to his face. "I don't think you and I need the formality of marriage. We've always shared a certain … intimacy at work, and I'd convinced myself that was enough."

"And is it still?" His voice is little more than a whisper, although he is grasping her small hand so tightly that he has to consciously allow his fingers to relax around hers.

Ruth shuffles across the sofa until their knees touch. He feels a warm frisson of pleasure pass through him. "I've been thinking about that, and … for me, it's … not. I need more than that. I'd _like_ .. more than that."

He can't help the smile which begins at his mouth, and then relaxes his whole face. "I need more than that also."

"I know you do. You've always made that clear."

He's not sure if that is true, but given Ruth knows him like no-one else knows him, she can probably read the longing in his face. They watch one another for a very long time. He wants to kiss her, but doesn't wish to send her back into her shell. He is aware that just beyond the window are members of his team, and that anyone could come barging in at any time … but he doesn't care. Harry has only just decided that it is about time they kissed, when Ruth reaches up with her free hand, placing it against his cheek, her thumb caressing his chin, and then his bottom lip. He feels a surge of arousal through his body, and forcing from his mind his many doubts, he leans towards her, meeting her lips with his.

What follows is the most exquisite kiss he has ever experienced. It is not like the kisses they'd exchanged before she'd left London – kisses of goodbye, laced with regret. This kiss is new and fresh, an exploratory kiss. He feels her lips parting beneath his and he ventures inside her mouth with his tongue. The humming from deep in her throat tells him everything he needs to know. They will be so good together; they already are good together, and he can't wait to take her home with him.

When they pull apart, they are both smiling, and Harry sees the welcome flush on her cheeks. "Come home with me," he says, one hand still grasping hers on his knee, while the other rests at her waist.

When she shakes her head, he pulls away, joy being replaced by panic. "I was about to ask you to come home with me, Harry. I have dinner warming, and wine .. I have four bottles of wine -"

" _Four_! Ruth, if you get me drunk, I'll not be good for … anything else."

Ruth's giggle has him smiling again. He loves her laugh. She doesn't laugh nearly enough, and one of his goals will be to make her laugh more, to bring her joy, just as she brings him joy.

"Before we go," he says, grasping her hand tighter, "I need to ask you something."

"Fire away." Ruth's eyes are on his, and he notices with pleasure that every now and again her eyes flick to his mouth, and then back to his eyes.

 _Well, here goes._ "I need to ask you .." and he watches her, but she is still relaxed from the kissing, "does this mean that you still love me … despite what happened with .."

"With George?" Harry nods, internally crossing all his fingers and toes. "Of course it does. I never stopped loving you, Harry. I may have been angry with you, but you've always been my … one true love. Everything else has been … a distraction."

He can't help himself. He leans towards her again, and this time she removes her hand from his so that she can wind her arms around his neck. He feels her fingers winding through the long hair at the nape of his neck as he pulls her close, and again kisses her, not so gently this time. He can feel the rapid beating of her heart in sync with his own as he draws her against him. How like Ruth to answer his last question before his first. He will have to assume that the answer to his second question is also a yes.

Then he remembers Ruth's words from only a minute ago. She had said he'd always been her one true love, which means … she had effectively said yes to his second question. Had George lived, she would choose him over George. He feels himself smile against her lips, and then rather reluctantly she pulls away.

"What is it?" she asks, her eyebrows drawn together.

"I'm just … happy … that you love me."

Ruth gives another one of her little laughs, her face breaking into a smile. "To quote you," she says, "I'm glad to be of service."

He watches her for a long moment. He can barely believe that they are here .. like this. "Shall we go home now?" he asks, keen to be doing more than just kissing.

She smiles into his eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
